Yondu, I've come to bargain!
by SkyHighDisco-new
Summary: Peter goes to prove himself. Doesn't go as planned. Yondu is pissed *cough* worried *cough*. Oneshot.


If Peter was to describe things, he would describe the _Eclector_ as a ginormous ugly potato among badass looking carrots and radishes. Because that's how it looked right now, sitting in a dusty harbor next to smaller ships and shuttles. One might even assume it will lean over any moment now, crying with screeching sounds of ancient metal, and collapse on other shiny, expensive and _worthy_ looking vehicles, seeing how pathetic its appearance was. And in that moment of his inward analysis, Peter was ashamed to be a Ravager. It had only hit him now to really stop and observe his no-longer-new home as they planetsided for a heist, which was on him. He didn't know if he was just bored or he genuinely felt like a philosopher today, but the ship before him just wasn't a ship. Yes, it was by far the biggest one there, and Peter wasn't even concerned someone might steal it as it was somehow menacing-looking, but that horrendous random-pieces-combined barrier filled with scratches, deliberate patches, improvised ramps, broken lights ( _and were those graffiti_?), that played off the _Eclector'_ s exterior made Peter wonder if other people who come across seeing it start laughing upon realizing it actually belonged to _space_ _pirates_.

That wasn't fair, Quill angrily sniffed. In movies, pirates had cool ships, like the _Black Pearl_ or the _Dutchman_ and even cooler (and smarter) crew. He remembered seeing the movie on display when Yondu brought him to a Terran exhibition some years earlier for his birthday. It was one of rare, nearly nonexistent sweet moments he got to share with Yondu, which got him to think the old man had something inside him after all. But then the next day would go like yesterday never happened, and Peter was left in a shade of hopelessness, recalling the events of the day before and almost feeling depressed.

Yup. Pirates of the Caribbean had better ships. Not to mention better captains. Even Jack Sparrow surpassed the finless Centaurian. And he was _drunk_!

Quill instinctively looked around, as if he'd see Yondu stand behind him with a provoking expression on his face and a whistle ready on his lips. He immediately shook his head. For one, Yondu can't read minds. He's not _that_ smart. And for two, he was way over there on the _Eclector_ 's ramp with the other Ravagers, observing them carry in a huge-ass dangerous looking weapon they've bargained for not so long ago which Peter wasn't allowed to participate. Peter grumbled conspiratorially, recalling how he'd pleaded Yondu to let him try to bargain this one, to which the captain laughed so hard that Peter thought his fin was going to pop out. Then he proceeded to list all true and made-up reasons why Quill's brain is too incompetent to bargain a cheap trinket, let alone a massive weapon this size. Peter wouldn't have minded if Yondu had said it to him privately — he might've even forgiven him for it — but seeing how the _entire_ crew heard Yondu's deliberately strong voice loud and clear, Peter was reduced to shame for months. It wasn't his fault, he grumbled, shooting a tiny rock with the tip of his boot, looking as it rolled all the way to the shore of the dirty sea. Besides, how was he supposed to learn how to bargain if he was never given a chance?

Peter perked up at this, as scenes got put together in his mind like chess figures. He looked over to the Eclector's ramp where Horuz dropped his side of the cargo which wickedly landed on his foot, making the old dog holler in pain and start jumping up and down while the rest of the crew roared in laughter. Yondu cuffed the guilty party on the back of his head, barking how he's going to make a fence of Ravagers with Yaka arrow going through all of their heads at the same time if they kept stalling any longer. Seizing his chance, Quill, turned around, straightening his long red coat and, mimicking the waltzing drunk strut of captain Jack Sparrow, fled to do some mischief.

* * *

He could've gone three hundred lightyears away and back _on foot_ for how long it took them to drag that huge blaster into the storage room. Yondu did his best to suppress any numeral thought on how many times his clumsy-ass crew nearly dropped the cargo, ridding them all of their lives as well as their ship. One of the reasons why he wouldn't let _Quill_ assist them. That, and the possibility of weapon being dropped would increase rapidly if it was handled by the Terran. Best he stay outside, keeping a _very safe_ distance from his own fingers and this nuclear lifetaker.

The Centaurian took satisfaction of nerve-releasing tongue-lashing on his crew as soon as the weapon was safely secured, and got them to ready their positions for departure. Then he told Kraglin to take over on the bridge and wait until he go get Quill. He would've used a communicator, Yondu thought darkly, but the little shitface meddled with his own couple of weeks earlier, and all Yondu could think was that it was purposeful, since Quill didn't bother to report it until their last mission, when Yondu discovered it himself after he tried contacting him regarding his position only to be met with annoyingly monotone static in return. Of course, Quill would refuse to admit the real truth, but Yondu let him be, knowing how circular these arguments could get ever since the boy was a teenager.

So when he returned to the outside scanning the surroundings and strictly remembering he had told Quill to stick around _close_ and found no trace of the red-haired curly Terran, no one could blame him for cussing everything horizontally and vertically. It was sufferable to say he was heard all the way to the city center, but momentarily he didn't give two shits about it. Besides, if Quill was around somewhere playing hide and seek again, he would've surely heard him.

But since Quill wasn't showing up even after his name had been yelled plenty of times, sometimes including other unnecessary foul attributes, Yondu was forced to accept a very familiar conclusion; Quill high-tailed it away again.

It wouldn't certainly be the first time he did this, seeing as he was thirty-one by now (or thirty-two? Bullcrap if he cared), and he went on enough solo missions — most of them going successfully — that the Captain wasn't particularly worried about the kid's safety. But about time wasting... now we're talking...

He brought the comm up, but intended towards different person. „Kraglin?"

„Capn'."

„Quill made a dash. Again."

Kraglin hesitated, not too long, but long enough for the _Eclector_ Captain to assume the next sentence wasn't going to be a simple. „Roger that."

„We _could_ just leave him, y' know", he heard Kraglin's fuzzy voice say. „Ain't no point in lookin' for 'im if he got 'imself lost. Will cost us another handful of time", the First Mate paused. "He ain't skinny any longer, Capn'. Just sayin'", he added quickly. „That we ain't technically have any use of 'im no more."

Yondu wished communicator was a portal for a second, so he could pierce the arrow up Kraglin's ass, but both revelation and truth hit him at the same time, flaming up the pans of fury and relief at the same time. „Like _hell_ we goin' without 'im", he growled, looking towards the kitschy buildings in the distance. „He got a not so _ignorable_ amount of units in his satchel that we fetched today. Keep the ship grounded." He switched the comm off. „Gonna kill that kid..."

If he kept it on, Kraglin might've assumed he was serious about the last one.

* * *

Peter was mesmerized by the city.

He couldn't exactly comprehend how a place like this held weapons like that. The sky was blue, but like, cartoon blue. The bluest thing Peter had ever seen. He didn't even remember a sky this blue when he was on Earth. Maybe because this planet had two suns. He forgot its name, he'd have to ask Yondu about it once he gets back.

But if the sky was the bluest sky-blue ever, then the city was even more colorful. Buildings of all shapes and sizes encircled him, shamelessly bursting in multiple colors; green, yellow, turquoise, pink, red, blue, orange... Hell, maybe Yondu accidentally landed to Paradise, but didn't know it. Why was he hangin' on the outer, dirtier part of the planet anyway? The sight before him was breathtaking enough that Peter forgot what he actually came for.

Peter flipped all worries over his shoulder and put on the headphones, letting his jam add to the mood as he shuffled through the crowd. The streets _were_ crowded by multiple races, some of them that Peter didn't even recognize or even seen before. He honestly wouldn't mind residing here for life. He'll have to leave Ravagers eventually, is what he's been telling himself for the past couple a' years. Several people-elbowings later, he burst onto an even more crowded market. He stopped at the street exit, theatrically opening his palms upwards, like Jesus offering a blessing. _Hello, preoccupied, low-security market. My name is Peter Quill. Nice to meet you._

After all these years, untypical cravings tingled his fingers in search for all sorts of tiny doodads to snatch, and at first consciousness tried to keep him on track, but eventually he stopped caring, easing into the Ravager life rhythm. _Surviving_ rhythm.

But no, he remembered now. He was here to bargain. And that bargain has to be big. Bigger than Yondu's nuclear sonuvabitch. And he was gonna prove Yondu wrong, prove all of them wrong. He was going to prove that Peter Jason Quill was more than a skinny could-fit-into-places-adults-couldn't kid good for thieving.

Besides, he had a bag full of units right here.

„This colossal bitch is going down", Peter uttered to himself, flexing his fingers and, bypassing the nearest busy stand, snatched up a plastic glass of a beverage that suspiciously resembled beer.

His search lasted for some time, but nothing seemed to fit his standards as he ascended the city (it was dome-shaped, damn the architects). Either it wasn't big enough, or badass enough, or it was dumb enough for Peter to practically hear Yondu laughing at him.

He didn't think events would lead to what happened next, but he could do fuck now. He did count on something bigger than the nuclear sonuvabitch, but he expected it to be _another_ nuclear sonuvabitch.

However, Peter was Peter — fabulous, good-looking, smart-as-hell, and the-only-one-in-the-galaxy Peter — and inside his fabulous smart-as-hell brain, plans didn't go as planned because he never made plans in the first place. And after this event he seriously planned to change that.

He ended up in front of the only grey building he's seen around here, and even though it didn't look particularly threatening, the lack of colors evoked suspicion in young Terran. In terms of bargain, suspicion is perfect. Peter stepped up.

Uncharacteristically, something else was situated several dozen feet in front of the building. Peter could best describe it as a hover-train. It was a centipede of what looked like bumping cars from amusement parks, bursting in random bright colors (like everything else on this damned planet) and it was situated on the dome's top. Like a cherry on the top of a shit-cake. Peter snickered in glee, cementing that metaphor in his brain and planing on unleashing it verbally later.

Number of people meddling around was a blink smaller than down the dome, but that was good, because less people would compete him for the baby Peter was currently grinning at.

Above a modern-looking stand in front hung an armed drone. It was shiny, magnificently black, had three propellers and _badass_ guns on each side that made Peter's skin crawl. The pod was big enough for only one rider, but to Peter, that was just fine since he didn't intend to share it. Fuck Yondu, this bargain was _his_.

The young Ravager rubbed his palms together. He needed to be clever. One slip of wrong word and he might get chased downhill, and chances that he'll reach the _Eclector_ before being caught were slim. So he exhaled for good luck, straightened his coat and walked over.

The guy at the stand was old. No, wait, Peter could do better than that. He looked like he was born with progeria but managed to squeeze through six more decades despite original diagnosis. He was skinny, but not too tall. He wore a tight black suit made of shiny leather and it literally looked like tar. Instead of hair, he had hundreds of stubby horns all over his head, varying in sizes and shapes. When the guy looked over from his nails, Peter had a chance to see his eyes were poisonous blue with no pupils, seemed to tear apart his soul.

Peter mentally slapped himself. „Hey, there." _Hey, there? Who do you think you're talking to, a bartender?_

Poison eyes squinted. „Can I help you?"

„Yes, you may", Peter gave what he hoped was a self-confident grin. „You know as I walked over here I couldn't help but notice this big black beauty over your head and thought how marvelous she'd look like in my collection."

„It's not for sale", the progeria dude lowered his gaze, adjusting little trinkets on the stand. The younger brushed his glance down over them. Presumably, they were all black like everything else on this color-forsaken place (excluding the train-joyride over there) but came in various shapes. Animals, tools, miniature building models... Yondu would've loved this. But he'd shoot an arrow through his own dick before he'd bargain for something like that. And he'd probably do the same to Quill if he tried so as well. Stuff like this is stuffed in the pocket.

„Then why is she hanging over your head?" Peter countered, eyeing the subject of his admiration briefly.

The seller mouthed to say something, but any sound that tried to exit was pushed back in as he averted his eyes lower. „You wear a Ravager coat."

„Belonged to my dad. Probably picked it up at some point", when the old man narrowed his eyes, still looking suspicious, Peter pushed on: „Oh, come on, do you really think I'd just walk up to you like this if I was a real Ravager? Do you even know what Ravagers _do_?" he dropped his hands on the stand, quavering some shiny trinkets and leaned forward. „They don't just strut up towards you like that", his voice almost dropped to a whisper, but then he quickly added: „My father told me the stories. First they rid you off things you hold most dear, one by one, piece by piece until there is nothing left but yourself. And then _bam!_ ", he does a single clap in front of the seller's horrified face that grew paler in color as he flinched. „Suddenly there's no more yourself, either", Quill adds a dramatic touch by producing a silent explosion sound. The old man gulped. Wow. He almost wished Yondu was here. Reckon he'd be proud.

„In short, yes", Peter grinned, leaning backwards, voice returning to normal volume. „Truly, I've come to fairly purchase what kept stabbing my eyes with black grace. If I was a real Ravager I'd just shoot you in the face and take what I think belongs to me." Actually, only Taserface would do a thing like that, since he didn't seem to possess anything behind that thick skull. And Horuz if he was pissed off enough. Ravagers like to play with their victims and _then_ getting what belongs to them.

The seller cleared his throat nervously, fiddling with his collar. „Very well, if you say so. But I fail to see how that's relevant. I told you it was not for sale."

Today was obviously an acting day, because lines just kept pouring out of Peter's mouth. „I think you're lying", he kept his voice low. „I think you're just afraid you won't find a worthy client. But let me tell you you worries end here", he shoved his satchel forward and opened it just enough to expose the shine of the units, making the seller's toxic eyes widen horrifically. Peter's lip quirked into a half-smile. Got him.

As hypnotized as the snake was, he composed himself disappointingly quickly, blinking the greed away. „Sir, even if I were to sell it to you, which is certainly unlikely, it's still a prototype design, not nearly suitable for usage. It hadn't tasted a drop of fuel, those propellers haven't moved an inch since the moment they were made and the control console isn't even connected to the system. The entire ship's sole purpose is just that — hanging over a display!"

Time for a tactic change. Peter conjured a dull face with dead eyes. „So that's what you're reducing your ships into? Trophies? Mannequins? Ships aren't mannequins. They need to breathe", he emphasized with his hands. „They need to taste freedom of space, ease of movement, miracle of... of what it means to be a ship in the first place! Not that..." Peter grimaced, pointing an open-palmed hand at the black beast above, "dead wax figure you're showing off with only because it looks good."

The seller was opening and closing his mouth by now like a fish on dry land, managing to stutter, „I-I beg your pardon, but—"

„As a matter of fact", Peter reached under his coat, "I might send a complaint to the Space Shipcraft Community right now and tell them how their beloved metal pets are being treated."

Toxic eye caught his arm in a death grip and Peter was shocked by the man's strength. That amount he would never see coming from a person that wrinkled. So he wasn't progeric, then. Quill was in temptation to ask him directly.

„How much?"

Shit yes. Truth be told he had no communicator of any kind, seeing as the wrist one was broken. And besides, he didn't know the name of the planet in the first place.

„How much is it?" Peter counterasked, releasing his arm from the death-grip.

„One."

„One K?"

„Sum."

 _One million?!_ Quill had to muster all his energy and acting superpowers to keep any muscle on his face from flinching. He doubted he had that much units in his satchel, but had to play along. This bargain game just strode down the serious road. Luckily, he had the blackmail attribute on his side, and damn him if he was going to walk out on this.

Peter squinted. „25 K."

Wrinkles scoffed. „You must be joking."

The young Ravager shrugged. „I can always say hi to my friends from the SSC—"

„90 000."

„30."

„80."

„40."

„I cannot possibly go below 70 000 units, you must understand", the merchant's voice had a desperate tone and Peter almost felt sorry for him. He probably would have if this wasn't his first bargain.

„Neither can I above 40", he shook his head, eyes locked firmly against poisonous ones. Yondu was going to kill him if he discovers he's given more than he received. What the hell was he talking about, the old Centaurian was going to kill him anyway.

That flared him up. „45 thousand units", Peter wrapped up, noting with satisfaction how his voice was down dangerous level. „Final offer."

The tension between them two could be cut with a knife, but Peter refused to stand down. Wrinkles was doubtful, fidgeting on his feet and eyeing the dark ship that threatened to crush him for all Peter saw in those eyes. People were still walking around, unaware this scene was even happening, keeping their minds occupied by other stands. He didn't mind waiting as long as it meant better profit, but on the other hand he really _was_ in a hurry. Yondu was gonna kill him for running off, and the longer Peter was stalling, the worse his punishment would be, he knew that from youth.

Then again, perhaps the sight over the (fairly won) _Black Widow_ would press down Yondu's fury enough so that his pride won't allow him to punish Peter at all. The youngster smirked. That picture _did_ sound _nice_. Peter Jason Quill — the youngest kickass-ship bargainer in Ravager history.

The merchant took a deep breath, looked left and right sharply and, very carefully held out an open palm. „Deal."

The following handshake felt like a despicable dose of happiness and pride for Peter, so he took liberty to show his appreciation and additionally squeezed the merchant's hand. The older one shook it off, ever displeased look on his barely readable furrowed face.

And this was the moment Peter's marvelous flower-ornate road turned to a seven thousand feet deep canyon.

He flung left side of his coat away to reach for the satchel, completely forgetting that one of his two-barreled blasters hung there like a kitschy ornament from a Christmas tree. He realized it nano-second too late, for Wrinkles' eyes had already gone wide as he pointed his time-eaten finger at him, and the Terran didn't even manage to blink. „Blasters! _He's a Ravager_!"

 _Merry Christmas, Peter._

He clicked his helmet into place just as the local guards — who he'd just noticed, as they didn't wear any special armor or anything, just grey coats and _huge-ass, head-ridding guns (!?)_ — opened fire at him. His blasters were already in his hands and he shot them both at the tough-material awning that threw shade over the black trinkets. Blasters turned the whole exhibition over as it tumbled to the ground with a crash, forming an improvised shield against currently shot head-ridding blasts from the guards. Small figurines dispersed around like tiny marble balls, and Peter remorselessly grabbed one, stuffing it in his pocket. Wrinkles was nowhere to be seen, probably high-tailed it outta here as soon as he saw what was beneath that coat.

People scattered all around as well, leaving a bunch of empty space, and there wasn't much chance Peter was getting out of stand's safety anytime soon. He inwardly cursed. He needed to think fast.

Huge red eyes of the mask shot upwards towards the newly-named _Black Widow_ and her impeccable propellers, and Peter was forced to embrace a heart-crushing truth. It was the only way he could get away with his head still present on his shoulders, but _man_ , it hurt to think about it. Best he do it asap before he changed his mind.

With all power of will he could muster and feeling the blasts penetrating his mutilated shelter, Peter aimed the left side of the rope hosting the _Widow_ and fired. The rope snapped. Screeching literally like it was in pain, the black ship dove down, smashing a part of Peter's stand with one of the propellers along the way (good thing Peter ducked when he did), letting gravity do the rest and swing it towards the guards, who must've figured what was going on by this point and held their fire. As he was aiming again, Peter could hear terrified yells from behind his shelter and shot the blaster once more, this time hitting the other cluster of the ropes. This made the ship swing all the way, making a 180° semi-circle, landing on the spot where the guards had just been standing. Peter already bolted from the stand on his faithful jet-boot attachments, heard a sharp yell and shots being fired again. Only this time, he had a new shield — and that shield was sliding parallel his side. The _Widow_ screeched across hard ground, taking shots and having her glass blasted away, as well as all the equipment, propellers, and _let's not even mention_ the body. Peter wanted to cry. Those beautiful curves, that shine no tar can surpass, those badass holopad consoles...

 _Sons of bitches._

But if Peter wanted retribution, he would do it when he had more Ravagers by his side. This way, he could only hover, firing occasional blast towards the hostiles and, upon touching the ground, running to the only source of his escape — a childish hover-train.

These bumping-car shaped wagons had typical dome-glass protection, mirroring every existing ship, and Peter quickly reached the locomotive (why did it have to be _pink_?), hitting the button to open the cockpit. The moment he jumped in, he looked back. The _Black Widow_ was still taking all the blasts and was still shielding him. But that also meant she was still sliding, meaning _heading_ _straight at him_.

And currently between him and the Choo-Choo there was nothing but a chasm.

Peter, clicked off his helmet, pressed a few buttons, closed the cockpit shut and turned the vehicle on. The uplifting FX sound of engines was music to Peters' ears and he quickly jammed the control forward. The little colorful centipede surged forward, as if it'd been waiting for it it's whole life.

Unfortunately, the centipede was too long; the last few wagons were hit by Her Massive Majesty Blackness, weighing the entire train down and Peter had to force full speed to keep the vehicle balanced. As he was slowly moving away, he followed the descend of the black ship as it surged into its downfall and collided with the ground bellow, sending a mushroom cloud of massive explosion as its tribute.

„Goodbye, old girl", Peter mouthed sadly. „I'll see you in the stars."

His sorrow was short-lasting. One of the wagons was hit and the impact shook the entire ship-train. Peter looked back to see a horde of grey and black ships emerge from the grey building like a swarm of angry space wasps. _Time to go._

With a whoop of joy, Peter surged the death-train forward, low down the dome-shaped city. He twisted in smooth loops, dodging the fire projectiles that destroyed buildings along the way. Downing their own buildings. A-holes.

„Outta the way!" he yelled at people running and dodging, knowing there's not much use as he was cocooned behind the glass. Peter was almost at road level now, completely adrenaline-driven, green eyes bursting with excitement. He remembered moments like this since he was ten years old, gripping _Milano_ 's consoles tight, leaning into her moves, dancing with her. Being _one_ with her.

As he made a double helix to avoid missiles, diving into another street in smooth elliptical arc, Peter found himself wondering if this colorful joyride had any missiles of its own. Keeping one eye on the chaotically fast landscape in front of him, he reached over, pressing some dots on the console, dragging his fingers on the holopad. He stopped just for a moment, to shape a check in his trajectory, avoiding a ship that came too close. Wasp obviously didn't expect it, seeing another explosion could be heard a second later.

There they are! Peter laughed aloud, pressing a little cartoony-style rocket hologram marked _#1_. He heard a buzz and massive-looking missiles popped up on both sides, launching themselves backwards with a hiss. Peter woo-ed like he was on a football game, but hell, this was way, _way_ better. Two explosions followed, but Peter was sure one of them was a wasp.

Flying the colored streets under the bright sun was unrealistic, and for a moment, Peter wondered if he was actually dreaming. Well, if so, he'd be dreaming pretty damn long by now, and he could still feel shots swarm over the train, but when you're driving a snake of a ship, it's hard to avoid that.

Lucky for him, he was the best driver in the universe.

Peter smirked, bypassing narrow positioned buildings in _S_ shape just like a thin elegant snake, hearing the wasps not being so elegant, smashing into them and getting their wings scraped right off. The centipede hovered over the huge market he'd previously been on as he launched the next set of missiles. _#2_ -s didn't hit any target, but Peter didn't expect them to. The more open the space, the more difficult it gets to shoot.

Was that why they were completely missing him while firing? Probably. Poor people down there. Peter straightened the train, nearly hitting a group of awestruck kids. The buildings were starting to lose color as well. He was nearing the port.

„Man, already?" He fired _#3_ , missing again, and then felt turbulence and a violent tug. As he looked back, he could see two or three back wagons falling down and crashing to the ground. _Oh, no they didn't..._

Now pissed, Peter prepared _#4_ launch, this time carefully following the targets on holopad and fired. Success. Both nearest ships collapsed onto the ground. Peter dodged the remaining buildings and wasp blasts, enjoying the ride, when buildings abruptly parted like Red Sea. Oh, and there's Moses.

Moses was the _Warbird_. She hovered over there, looking menacing. Like a harpy eagle watching a bunch of sparrows chasing her caterpillar. Peter swore his closer and farther relatives and dodged low just as _Warbird_ fired. The blast was a ball of orange electric energy. It hit the nearest blasting wasps, causing a chain reaction that caught the rest of the small fleet and an epic explosion for _finale_. Peter cheered loudly again, circling the empty port in gentle curve as the _Warbird_ settled on the ground. He pulled his train over just as the M-ship ramp lowered and his savior showed up. Yondu, obviously.

The old man's eyelids were half lowered and his stance almost looked bored, but Peter knew better. Underneath old that, Yondu was furious. „Da hell did you do, boy?" he asked hoarsely as Peter opened the cockpit.

Peter beamed at him like a small child. „I made a bargain!"

* * *

Needless to say Yondu knew going after Quill was pointless. Finding a Terran on a planet crowded as this one was impossible by itself, even with a dispositional ship. He did scan the edge of town and when people started looking at him funny, he just swung aside his coat and they scattered away like Orloni from carrion. So he decided to scout from above, easing through the sky in safety of the _Warbird_ , still wondering his ass out how the hell he was supposed to track down a Terran. He wasn't noticeable, or particularly variegated, only wearing the respective red coat, but even that wasn't enough to scream _''Over here, you mushroom cloud layin' motherfucker!''_ from seven hundred feet above.

However Yondu knew Quill for more that two decades and he fully realized searching for him like a mother hen would waste him both time and precious nerves (and whistling, too), so he just waited for something to happen. Quill venturing elsewhere by himself always had... explosive consequences.

He didn't have to hover his ass up for long. Soon enough, on the top of the city, a chaos usurped people's attention. Was that a completely retarded-looking flying train? Definitely Quill.

Yondu circled around in question mark shape back to the port and waited. When his money flew over — in a completely retarded-looking train — he's sent its persecutors' asses to hell.

Now it's time for another ass to slowly make way towards it, too, though hell was gonna be a _picnic_ for Quill once he's done with him.

„Ya even thought what you was gonna do?"

„... n-no, but—"

„Wastin' our time over here? Ye tryna' make us look stupid?"

„No, I was just—"

„Ain't no planet we land on an' I gotta collect yer stupid fly-ass behind all over the planet. Am I right?"

„Well—"

„ _Am I right?!_ "

„Yes, but Yondu—"

„How the fuck old are ya, Quill?

„Why do you— _OW! Son of a bitch, not the ear, Yondu!_ "

„Now'd be 'bout time you start bein' fluent, son."

„Ow! Thirthy-three, damn it! What's that gotta—"

„That still bein' toddler in Terran years?"

„What—no! No, what are you even— _ow, you shit-eatin', piss-drinkin'—_ "

„ _Then why the hell you ain't startin' behavin' like an adult for once!_ "

„ _Why don't you let me speak first!_ "

Peter was surprised by _A)_ a capacity of high-pitched undignified noises his throat was capable of producing, _2)_ a remarkable silence that followed after those noises, and _D)_ How it actually _hurt_ when your ear was being pulled at, and he was probably getting to terms with other kids being punished like this and why they didn't like it.

Not that it was worse than beating he got in front of entire crew once he'd been dragged from the hangar until it met their satisfaction. He thought Yondu was done with him at that point and he could go die in peace, until he was dragged to Yondu's personal quarters (by ear) for more yelling.

Yondu's grip abruptly vanished and Peter straightened himself up. He was convinced all that ear-pulling was because Yondu liked to have him subdued on his eye level since Peter had long since surpassed him. Anyone who'd known them less than two minutes would think Peter would have no problem in beating the old man's ass up, but Yondu, under all that captain pride and arrow-whistling without so much as lifting a finger, was ever the stronger. So strong, in fact, that in past hand-to-hand combats when he was younger he'd managed to beat Yondu only once (and Yondu was sick that day, and Peter had too much sugar).

„A'ight", Yondu's voice was low and hoarse, so low that Peter barely picked it up. He gave a step back and Peter thought he saw the arrow reddening threateningly beneath the shadows of Yondu's coat. „You got five seconds."

„ _Five_? Do you even know how to count?"

„Better than you're 'bout to in four."

„Okay, okay. I admit it, I'm an idiot. I went forth and almost killed myself and wasted bunch of your all stupid-ass time, but technically you've been wasting yours, too."

„You ain't exactly _explaining_ yerself here, Quill. Three."

„But I almost killed myself for _good_ cause. Hey, you got a train _and_ kept your units, huh? What other Ravager member would come out that ingratiating?"

„Ha ha. Two."

„I _bargained_ , okay? I tried to bargain!" Peter had his hands up in the air now, hysterics and sheer frustration breaking the surface. He hated being this helpless, especially when being threatened. Particularly because he wasn't a kid anymore and was capable of taking care of himself, but Yondu didn't seem to grasp that concept yet. „And-and I would've nearly done it if I hadn't been spotted in the last minute, but I was nearly _there_ , get it? I bargained a kickass ship that makes the _Eclector_ look like a Kree barf that got eaten and shit out again, for forty thousand units. _Forty_ , Yondu! Those M-ships go past fifty, and they are garbage cans full of shit and cigarette butts mixed together compared to that beauty. You haven't seen her, you old doofus. If you were there, you would've done the same. And you just told me to grow up so I went on doing just that."

He waved his head off exhaustedly, desperately, _pleadingly_. „You just won't or can't see it, Yondu. I'm trying, maybe you think I don't, but I'm trying to be whatever it is you want me to be. When you started teaching me how to fight, I asked you why. You said survive, and not another word. And that's what I did. That's what I always _do_. And this situation was no different, but I would've never manage it if you knew. How can I trust myself to survive if you can't trust me? You never believe I can do something, do you start seeing the pattern here? Are you starting to realize why I run off each time, when all I wanted was to make you—"

 _Proud_? Was that what he was trying to say? No, that wasn't possible. Yondu was never proud of him, Yondu couldn't _feel_ pride. Either Peter did the task that he was given, or didn't. If he did, job done. If he didn't, he got beat up. Luckily, jobs were usually done (well).

Suddenly, Peter felt tired. He was tired from yelling, from being yelled at, from babbling up his soul like this, from just feeling like _absolute shit living in a shit-butt city._ His limbs grew heavy and he slumped, not daring to sit or move for that matter.

Yondu was silent for a long time. Five seconds turned to fifty. He didn't care. But he listened. He wouldn't let it show on his face, though.

He sighed and crooked his finger at the boy. „Come here."

Peter was sure his senses were giving up on him. „Huh?"

„Come on here", Yondu repeated, reaching out and curling a hand around the back of Quill's neck, drawing him forward until their heads touched. Peter stiffened, but didn't dare move. Not that he could, anyway. Yondu's hands moved to grasp at his ears and Peter flinched, expecting to be pulled at again. But the pressure around his ears was gentle, something untypical for ever-rough Ravager Captain. Yondu slid his fingers through Peter's curls and it soothed the Terran in a way that made him feel like he was eight years old again, being comforted by Yondu after a brain-burning nightmare, or a hard, suicidal day, those long forgotten sweet memories coming back to him in a wave. He exhaled through his nose and reached out to grab Yondu's elbows, showing his appreciation since his throat was too clogged to express words.

„Quill?"

„Hm?"

„There are some things I don't never mean to tell you."

Peter wanted to open his eyes, but he was too exhausted, and this position felt so good for his sore self. „What are you talking about?"

„I'm talking 'bout what I'm talking 'bout."

„Eloquent, as always."

Yondu's grip tightened warningly. „I'm gonna say this once, and you better listen, 'cause I ain't sayin' it ever again. Ain't gotta prove yerself nothin' boy, cause you already did. Not just once. Whatta ya think I keep holdin' ya back for, hm? Sure as hell not 'cause I don't think you can do stuff. Hey, look at me." Peter does and Yondu's crimson eyes are open, staring straight into him, deeper than any time before when they had conversations like this. „Have I done right by you? Not always. Have you done right by me? Hell ya did. Couldda we both do better by each other? Probably. But lemme tell ya this. There ain't one day, one single day", he gave Peter's head light tugs to emphasize last three words, "that I ain't damn proud 'a ya. Get it?"

Peter could only close his eyes and nod, and _try_ contain those stupid tears. Little good would it do if he embarrassed himself in front of Yondu now. He would never hear the end of it. Still, Yondu's words hit him like a steel wall heated up to the point of melting and he wanted to stay like this forever, but even as the Ravagers _were_ a tactile bunch, Yondu would never allow it, no matter how much he regarded Peter more than most.

Peter pressed his forehead harder against Yondu's, taking deep breaths to hold back waterfalls and counting to hundred. He got to thrity five when Yondu leaned away and Peter re-opened his eyes. „All good?"

Peter nodded again. „Yeah."

The Centaurian gave a firm nod and released him, giving Peter space to breathe unclogged again, although his eyes still stung a bit.

He suddenly remembered something just as he wondered what to do now. Peter reached into his pocket. „I, ah..." he turned a tiny trinket, inspecting what he actually grabbed in that incubus back there. It was a cat, black, long-eared, elegant and shiny, sitting on its haunches and looking at him with three beady green eyes. „I picked it up back there. Almost got shot while doing it, but I couldn't leave such a pretty place without fetching a souvenir."

„Don't tell me you bargained for it."

Peter grinned. „You taught me better than that."

Yondu's throat creaked as he laughed. „That's my boy."

Peter staggered over as his hair was ruffled, which probably looked ridiculous since he was taller, but he pressed the cat in Yondu's palm. „Keep it", he said, a strange spark in his eyes. „Will make your dash look pretty."

Yondu observed it around as Peter stumbled to the door, ready to plop into his bunk and pass the hell out with soft music of his Walkman in the background...

„Quill?"

He looked back. „Yeah?"

Yondu was giving him look he did whenever he thought Quill had just done a mischief, which usually _was_ the case. It was that penetrating, unblinking look only meant for Peter and nobody else on this ship. Peter knew Yondu knew something, and it made his skin crawl.

„There anythin' you wanna tell me?"

 _I just did_ , Peter thought, looking at the small three-eyed cat. And as he looked at it, he realized he was right. No matter this moment they just shared, no matter Quill had no doubt there'd be more of them in the future and no matter he _knew_ everything Yondu had said was sincere and heart-spoken (yes, _heart_ -spoken), Peter knew his ravaging days are over. He was a bird leaving the nest, and while he had heard these stories million times in the past, he now came to realization of what it really meant. The _Eclector_ was his home, the Ravagers his family. But Quill had one bit of himself, one instinct, that pulled him away, towards the _Milano_ down in hangar and _out of here_. Way among stars, to independence and adventures. And he knew none of it was possible if he stayed here. This cat, this little ornament... this tiny gift was his small _thank-you_ and _goodbye_ at the same time, to only person who truly and sincerely ever fully understood him.

„No, old man. Nothing at all."

* * *

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 **~~A/N: ~~ The black cat mentioned here is actually a figurine decorating Yondu's dashboard in the movie!**

 **And yes, sorry for the _Widow_ , Natasha.**


End file.
